Challenge Response: "Twilight" [NC-17]
Waaah, should be sleeping, but inspiration struck.
"Twilight"
A series of three related drabbles [spice, gift, mistletoe]. NC-17 and 507 words over-all.
i.
The hot glints of sunlight slide along the panes of Tezuka's glasses as Ryoma leans forward, easy and nonchalant. Tezuka turns his head, aware of details such as the boisterous crowd, the clean smack of ball on racket, and the eyes of the competitors and their parents and coaches and fans, and Ryoma's lips land on the corner of his mouth, tasting, just briefly, a faint spice.
Ryoma, stubborn, tries again, but this time Tezuka stops him with his hands, firmly. "Don't get careless."
"I can't believe that you care what they think."
Tezuka doesn't concede to kissing him, but his hand is warm as it takes Ryoma's.
ii.
"Buchou."
Ryoma looks most beautiful in the smooth darkness of night, Tezuka thinks. His glasses are on the side table next to his cell phone, but he doesn't need them to see Ryoma. He's all shadows and pale, soft skin - sweatily arched - mouth open and panting - little sounds - toes curling in the sheets. Tezuka's hair falls inkily into his eyes as he sucks in around Ryoma's cock, drawing it in deeper.
Tezuka's eyes are on Ryoma's body, memorizing everything he's wanted, but he's afraid to look into his eyes, even though he can feel the heat of Ryoma's waiting gaze. Instead, his hands are strong and sure on Ryoma's hips - trembling thighs - ass - and his mouth and tongue unrelenting.
"Oh - Oh."
Tezuka looks at Ryoma's lips because Tezuka knows how to give, but not how to receive.
Later, when the moon spills onto Ryoma's still eyelids and Tezuka's arms are tightly around him, Tezuka whispers, "I love you," lips so close that his voice stirs the damp locks of Ryoma's bangs. "I love you."
A sharp intake of breath. Ryoma opens his eyes, tilting his head upwards, and they look at each other.
This moment is a gift of the greatest kind.
iii.
For his birthday, Ryoma asks Tezuka to play a game with him.
They seem to play for hours, the sky richening in orange and crimson before its slow fade, and it's not certain who is the challenger and who is adapting - evolving. Perhaps they are both growing. They are sweating heavily despite the icy air when Tezuka wins seven games to six.
Ryoma's eyes are lit with fire - the sort of ironic joy that only arose when he lost. "Mada mada da ne."
They shower in comfortable silence save the slap of water on tile, flesh on flesh, before heading off to Fuji's Christmas party.
They knock on the door, but Momoshiro just sticks his head out of the upstairs window, squinting at the forms in the half-light and picking out Ryoma's white cap. "Hoi, Echizen! You're standing under mistletoe. I hope your date is pretty!"
Tezuka and Ryoma look up to the ceiling of the alcove before the door, and a sprig of mistletoe is indeed hanging there.
Their lips come together in the twilight, and they are more open and safe than they've been before.
"Twilight"
A series of three related drabbles [spice, gift, mistletoe]. NC-17 and 507 words over-all.
i.
The hot glints of sunlight slide along the panes of Tezuka's glasses as Ryoma leans forward, easy and nonchalant. Tezuka turns his head, aware of details such as the boisterous crowd, the clean smack of ball on racket, and the eyes of the competitors and their parents and coaches and fans, and Ryoma's lips land on the corner of his mouth, tasting, just briefly, a faint spice.
Ryoma, stubborn, tries again, but this time Tezuka stops him with his hands, firmly. "Don't get careless."
"I can't believe that you care what they think."
Tezuka doesn't concede to kissing him, but his hand is warm as it takes Ryoma's.
ii.
"Buchou."
Ryoma looks most beautiful in the smooth darkness of night, Tezuka thinks. His glasses are on the side table next to his cell phone, but he doesn't need them to see Ryoma. He's all shadows and pale, soft skin - sweatily arched - mouth open and panting - little sounds - toes curling in the sheets. Tezuka's hair falls inkily into his eyes as he sucks in around Ryoma's cock, drawing it in deeper.
Tezuka's eyes are on Ryoma's body, memorizing everything he's wanted, but he's afraid to look into his eyes, even though he can feel the heat of Ryoma's waiting gaze. Instead, his hands are strong and sure on Ryoma's hips - trembling thighs - ass - and his mouth and tongue unrelenting.
"Oh - Oh."
Tezuka looks at Ryoma's lips because Tezuka knows how to give, but not how to receive.
Later, when the moon spills onto Ryoma's still eyelids and Tezuka's arms are tightly around him, Tezuka whispers, "I love you," lips so close that his voice stirs the damp locks of Ryoma's bangs. "I love you."
A sharp intake of breath. Ryoma opens his eyes, tilting his head upwards, and they look at each other.
This moment is a gift of the greatest kind.
iii.
For his birthday, Ryoma asks Tezuka to play a game with him.
They seem to play for hours, the sky richening in orange and crimson before its slow fade, and it's not certain who is the challenger and who is adapting - evolving. Perhaps they are both growing. They are sweating heavily despite the icy air when Tezuka wins seven games to six.
Ryoma's eyes are lit with fire - the sort of ironic joy that only arose when he lost. "Mada mada da ne."
They shower in comfortable silence save the slap of water on tile, flesh on flesh, before heading off to Fuji's Christmas party.
They knock on the door, but Momoshiro just sticks his head out of the upstairs window, squinting at the forms in the half-light and picking out Ryoma's white cap. "Hoi, Echizen! You're standing under mistletoe. I hope your date is pretty!"
Tezuka and Ryoma look up to the ceiling of the alcove before the door, and a sprig of mistletoe is indeed hanging there.
Their lips come together in the twilight, and they are more open and safe than they've been before.